


One Miracle Short

by locknessmonster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John Dies, Post-Reichenbach, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 08:16:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/locknessmonster/pseuds/locknessmonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A really short fic about what happened after Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Miracle Short

"You were gone for three years, Sherlock. He moved on. He was happy, later." A cautious tone warned bad news. Instantly the mind under those black curls was launched into every possibility but one, averting it because John Watson was perfectly fine. He _was fine._  
"What do you mean?" The detective's head snapped up, eyes tearing themselves away from the pictures he was just making fun of despite himself.  
Did he really have to ask?  
"John Watson married after you left. Six months, they were, and..." Mycroft hesitated to say it, watching Sherlock's mouth form a thin line of anger.  
"Well, spit it out." The younger sibling demanded impatiently, his body rigid.  
"It was a brain tumor. Inoperable." Mycroft finally said. His words weighed him down. This was worse than Irene. Sherlock only _loved_ her.  
John Watson was so much more.  
"Did you try?" Again, he already knew the answer. "You're the British government, you've got loads of doctors waiting at your beck and call, _did you try?_ " Sherlock was shouting, his voice fractured. It was thin ice, just before an unfortunate skater was plunged into the numbing cold water.  
"Yes, Sherlock." Mycroft replied softly, steeling himself. "But he was a doctor, too. He knew that there wasn't anything we could really do." Though he knew it was anatomically impossible, he felt ice in his heart. Fog in his mind. A pounding in his head like some tribal ritual.  
And then it stopped.  
The older brother didn't move, or blink, or really even breathe as his messy-haired sibling overturned the table. Those shouts of rage and anguish barely reached his ears.  
He wasn't going to tell him stop, Sherlock, there's no reason to pout.  
Who could say something so cold, even him?  
The younger Holmes would blame himself. He wasn't usually the kind of person to do that, no, but John Watson was an exception.  
He was _always_ the exception with Sherlock Holmes.  
So he didn't get upset, watching Sherlock destroy the room in a fit of rage and grief. He simply waited until he was panting, on all fours, clothes and hair disheveled and tossed, glaring at the floorboards like it was their fault.  
Mycroft had four months to deal with this, to plan it out. So he kept his composure.  
"He told me to give you a message." He finally said, finding it hard to look directly at his brother.  
"He thought I was dead."  
"You didn't really think he wouldn't suspect, would you?"  
Sherlock didn't reply to that.  
"The message was simple." Another agonizing pause, like Sherlock hadn't been through enough already, _Damnit, tell me, Mycroft!_ he was screaming in his mind, but too tired to shout. Too tired to move, even, like his mind alone was now weighting him to the ground. He just wanted to sleep.  
"He simply said...'Thank you.'"  
That was the first time Mycroft had seen Sherlock cry in seventeen years, four months, and three days.

... ...

"I don't really know what I'm doing, actually. I just came to... you know. Apologize, I guess. Mycroft isn't here, so I might as well be honest."  
The stone was simple. Elegant, like his own had been. White marble, clear and straight and clean. Like the man himself.  
It was far too little of a representation. He deserved so much more.  
Simple black lettering stated his name, and the simple word _"Loved"_ underneath it.  
Sherlock thought that was appropriate, at least. He wasn't too sure about Mary, but he still knew that John Watson was probably the most loved person there was. Maybe that was admitting too much to himself, but at the moment he didn't care about dealing with it.  
"I'm not mad. Not at you. Even if you didn't get it. I- thank you. John, thank you for not doubting me."  
He took in a breath, closing his eyes against the gentle breeze that mixed up the leaves like children playing, chasing each other around and making so much noise rustling.  
He preferred the silence.  
He'd come to love the absence of sound, unless John was breaking it by complaining at him or praising him.  
He supposed it wasn't as good, though. Without someone there.  
He'd figured that in the three years of almost solitude.  
Late by only a few months.  
Late.  
"I did it, though." Cracked voice scraped past dry lips, barely a whisper above the leaves. "I made your miracle happen. Can't say I'm not dead, though, just technically alive." He looked down at his shadow, closing his eyes for a moment. Too honest.  
"I'm sorry, John. I only needed one more miracle. For you."


End file.
